


Yo Ho Ho and a Bottle of Loch Lomond

by Demus



Category: Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: Age of Sail, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M, Pirates, Pre-Slash, Public Sex, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-06
Updated: 2012-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-30 17:08:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demus/pseuds/Demus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain Archibald 'Sharpsteel' Haddock is fast becoming one of the most feared pirates on the high seas, and he doesn't take kindly to stowaways. Perhaps Tintin should have snuck aboard a different ship? (Response to the 'Haddock is a pirate' prompt on the kink meme. Contains Haddock/Tintin slash, violence and one instance of mild gore)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yo Ho Ho and a Bottle of Loch Lomond

Painful though it was to admit, the whelp did put up a good fight.

Archibald Haddock, captain of the schooner _Le Tonnerre_ , watched with some resignation as his crew was given a royal pasting by a soft-faced youth in ridiculous breeches. The fight had been going on for a good ten minutes now and had provided a vast amount of entertainment; the boy appeared to count squirrels amongst his ancestors, scaling the mainmast with speed that put his men to shame, then seeming to think nothing of launching himself from its dizzying heights, somehow managing to snag himself a stray rope on the way down and swinging to the dubious safety of the deck, where he was set upon by the rest of the crew. Who, it transpired, were no match for him.

"Blundering ostrogoths," he muttered to himself, as Quartermaster Nestor's most delicate regions were introduced to the lad's knee at speed. "More than a cutlass apiece and not a drop of blood spilled." To add insult to injury, the boy was barely out of breath, only a faint gleam of perspiration to denote his exertions, and Haddock's men were exhausted to a man, panting and sweating like Kingston judges. 

Haddock growled. "By thunder, Nestor, have you broken your sword arm? Stab the little bastard!" 

"With all due respect, sir," Nestor bit out, his voice just audible over the din of combat as he heaved himself up from his prone position, "Stab the little bastard yourself."

He would probably have to, he thought, as yet another fearsome buccaneer crashed whimpering to the deck. May God damn and destroy all bald-chinned pups and their impertinence. With a sigh, the captain unsheathed his sword and waded into the fray.

The youth grinned as he approached, dropping Rolly the boatswain with a well-timed fist to the stomach and spinning on his heel to meet Haddock's assault full-on with the his sword, liberated from Rolly's belt as the man fell. Haddock swore, throwing all of his weight behind wild slashes to drive the lad back; the youth complied, blocking each attack as though he'd directed them himself.

"Where did you learn to fight, boy?" Haddock snarled, aware that the remainder of his crew had fallen away, some nursing their injuries, to watch the action. Not for nothing did the figure of 'Sharpsteel Haddock' loom large in these waters.

His opponent, however, did not seem impressed. He continued to retreat from the captain's assault, dodging and blocking, as light on his feet as a mountain goat. "Brussels," he said calmly, as though he had not just taken on an entire pirate crew single-handed. "And you?"

"Blistering barnacles, I've cut open men three times your size just to test my blade!" Haddock thundered, furious. "You dare to question Captain Archibald Haddock?"

The lad smiled. "Oh, that's who you are? I had been," he ducked, suddenly, under a sweeping slash and came up attacking, "wondering whose ship this was. I'm Tintin."

Haddock would have bellowed his disbelief at Tintin's impertinence for the world to hear, but he was a little preoccupied fending off the attack. Whatever skill he possessed with fists, it was only half what he possessed with a sword. The boy was a demon. His attacks were almost as powerful as Haddock's and nigh on twice as fast. The familiar tilt-and-sway of the deck suddenly felt treacherous beneath the captain's feet as he stumbled backwards, the crew's shock palpable in the air. 

Tintin's sword sang as prettily as it danced, moving so quickly that it whistled through the air, and though it rang out against Haddock's with every swing, it wouldn't be long before the boy drew first blood. Haddock was no fool - no idiot could have attained his lofty position as the premier shark in these seas - so he gave Nestor the nod, feinted left to draw Tintin's attack, then straightened up with a huff of relief as the quartermaster's hilt came down on the boy's head, knocking him insensible.

"Tie him up and take him to my cabin," Haddock ordered, sheathing his cutlass and glaring at his dumbstruck crew, daring any man amongst them to comment. "No man insults Sharpsteel and gets away with it." 

 

In truth, it did not take long for the lad to recover, such was Nestor's skill with a bludgeoning instrument. He groaned, shivered, then looked about himself with dull incomprehension for a few seconds before realisation dawned. 

Haddock smirked at his shock. “Good afternoon,” he said, treacle-sweet-and-bitter. “You have caused me a great deal of trouble, and you should know that our law does not look kindly upon stowaways.”

“I am not a stowaway,” the boy said, with surprising heat for one just roused from insensibility. “I was barely aboard ten minutes! Besides, no law commands a band of thieves and ruffians!”

The irritation that flared up was old and well-worn, anger he had carried so long that it had hardened into frustration. “Thundering typhoons, do all landsmen believe that bag of moonshine? Tell me, boy, how a ship makes sail without order? How can a single man command a crew that does not willingly submit to his authority, when land and all allies are far behind?”

The lad snorted, though the firebrand of his indignation appeared to have cooled slightly. “Why – tyranny, of course! Intimidation of the weak, promises of treasure to the strong, control of rations-”

“Tyranny?” Haddock cried, in disbelief. “The tyranny of one man against many? Truly, you have a high opinion of we 'thieves and ruffians', to suppose that my skills are so advanced!”

Brows crinkling with confusion, the boy blinked, considering Haddock's outburst. The quiet allowed Haddock's temper to settle, reminding him that he had intended to interrogate his prisoner, not expound upon the virtues of buccaneering law. He cleared his throat, leaning forwards in the manner generally considered to be intimidating, and was about to resume command of the situation when said prisoner asked, “Then how does it work? You don't have armies or watchmen to enforce the rules, or courts to punish wrongdoers, so how do you avoid absolutism?”

“Blistering barnacles, can it be so hard to believe that we are a democracy?” Haddock exploded, slamming a hand onto his knee and launching himself up to tower over the youth, fury clenching his fists and his teeth, rousing fierce heat to his cheeks. 

Tintin blinked again, staring up with a peculiar mix of bemusement and calm, steady defiance. “Why, yes,” he said, his head tilting to one side like the ship's terrier, “You are murderers and rogues, why should you abandon one set of laws only to take up with another?”

“Billions of blue-” the captain paused, the youth's logic permeating his anger. He subsided, lowering fists he had unintentionally raised, and dropped back into his seat, studying his prisoner. If Tintin was afraid, he showed no sign. Despite the ropes binding his wrists and ankles, his prone position on the floor and the head-wound that must be paining him, the boy looked as collected as a schoolboy. The comparison was striking, in fact; he sat straight-backed, his combat-ravaged clothes seeming at odds with his neat posture, and with his soft, unmarked features, he didn't look a day over sixteen. “How old are you, child?”

The boy looked surprised to be asked. “Eighteen, I think.”

Haddock raised an eyebrow. Uncertainty on that score wasn't unusual. “Orphan?”

“Foundling,” Tintin replied, with no trace of regret or hesitation. “The church-”

The captain waved him to silence. He wasn't interested in the minutiae of the lad's upbringing, only in the particular circumstances that led to his presence on _Le Tonerre._ “And from the Low Countries?” he asked, remembering their earlier exchange.

Tintin's eyes narrowed, only briefly. “Brussels,” he said, the fixed calm of his defiance slipping for a moment. 

_He is patriotic, then._ It was always good to have a weapon against an enemy's equilibrium. Haddock smirked. “The Low Countries,” he repeated, mollified by Tintin's resultant squirm of discomfort. _So you are human, m'sieur._ “You speak excellent English; I assume you made your way here with a merchant ship,” he added, relieved to regain control of the conversation.

There was a pause as Tintin considered this. Haddock's smirk widened. In the end, all interrogations followed the same pattern; the prisoner would express his affront, attempt opposition, realise the helplessness of his position and capitulate. What happened next depended entirely on the nature of that capitulation. It seemed that Tintin's affront was on the wane already.

The boy squared his shoulders, obviously having come to a decision. “Yes,” he said, concisely. “I paid an English merchant for safe passage to the Caribbean and, when it became apparent that he considered himself above the laws of the land whilst at sea, I endeavoured to remove myself from the contract.”

“By throwing yourself overboard at the first sign of another ship.”

“Quite.”

Haddock stared at his captive, disbelief warring with amused admiration. “Then you are either brave to the point of idiocy or ignorant to the point of recklessness,” he concluded, eventually, and Tintin smiled.

“Thank you, captain. Might I beg you to untie me now? My hands are quite dead, I can assure you.”

It was so audacious that Haddock had to chuckle. “No, my lad, though I'll admit you're a bold one. And a stowaway is a stowaway, no matter how long he has stayed or intended to stay.”

“I cannot dispute that,” Tintin said, shrugging. “In truth, I'd hoped to beg an audience with the ship's captain as soon as I came aboard, but the crew took immediate offence at my presence and my explanations were somewhat lost in the confusion.”

The 'confusion' which had left an embarrassing number of his men incapacitated on their own deck, Haddock mused, ruefully. Aloud, he said, “And what is your profession? The charity of the church tends not to extend to overseas voyages for their foundlings.”

Tintin shook his head. “Indeed it does not. I worked for a time as a clerk in the parish offices, then found employment with a distributor of corantos; it is the business of news with which I concern myself.”

“You are a professional fussbudget, then. A meddler in the affairs of others.”

Colour rose in the boy's cheeks, indignant colour, sudden and sharp. “I protest-”

“I don't care,” Haddock said brusquely and Tintin subsided, though the angry flush remained. “Your tale is interesting, but I see no reason to believe it. Why would a man so young abandon all of his opportunities in so careless a fashion? Why toss aside a profession for the sake of passage to the stinking tropics?”

Tintin grinned, suddenly excited, an excitement that Haddock had once known better than his own features. “For adventure, of course! What else is there?” 

“A warm bed and a healthy dose of financial security, that's what.” Haddock studied the youth, noting the vital gleam in his eyes, the fervour that set his limbs to shaking, and sighed. “I'm an old fool,” he said, more to himself than to Tintin, drew his knife and, with two swift cuts, released the youth from his bonds. “There, now. You've some schooling and the sawbones could always use a quick mind and a steady hand – not squeamish are you?”

The boy gaped, uncomprehending, and the captain rolled his eyes. “You're more useful to me alive than dead,” he explained, making his way to the door, opening it briefly to bellow, “Nestor! Send word for the leech!”then turning back to Tintin, tucking his hands into his belt. “You've had your chance to kill me, boy, and you didn't take it. By my reckoning, that makes you a man worthy of trust, but risk isn't my game and I'll not play it. You'll earn your food and plunder like the rest of the crew and we'll see whether the sea has adventure enough for you.”

Before Tintin could reply, or make any move to rise, the cabin door burst open.

“Captain! Captain, I'm so glad I found you! I have made the most wonderful discovery about spinach!” Calculus bustled in, hands fluttering wildly as he expounded on his 'wonderful discovery', making straight for Haddock with barely a glance in Tintin's direction. “It is most extraordinary, my dear Captain, almost unique! You will never guess – oh, it is so exciting! A marvellous day for science, oh yes!”

It took some doing to fend the enthusiastic doctor off, but Haddock managed it, taking his wrists to still him. “I give you joy of it, Cuthbert, truly I do, but there is a matter most urgent-”

“Oh no, no no, it is nothing to do with surgery,” Calculus said, dismissively, peering up at Haddock over his pince-nez. “Really, Captain, it is as well that I do not possess your pathological inability to _listen_. It is a dietary discovery! A veritable revolution!”

Tintin, whose eyes had gone wide and round as he watched Calculus' antics, ducked his head to giggle. The captain sighed. “No, not 'surgeon', _urgent_. A matter most urgent. We have a stowaway.”

“Somebody stole your play? My poor friend, whoever could have done such a thing? And when did you get into the writing line?”

“No, a _stowaway_ ,” Haddock repeated a little louder, ignoring the implication that his shipful of bloodthirsty pirates would never dream of committing so heinous a crime as theft, and released the doctor's hands to point at Tintin. “I want you to put him to work.”

Calculus fussed with his delicate spectacles a moment, then turned to follow Haddock's pointing finger. “He doesn't look like a berk to me. On the contrary, he seems a most intelligent youth – have you your letters, lad?”

Tintin mastered his laughter and offered a sunny smile in response to the doctor's question. “I do, sir, in Latin, Greek, French, Dutch, English and Arabic.”

“There, you see, Archibald? He could not be further removed from idiocy. Come along then, my lad, and I shall explain to you the Calculus theory of spinach and scurvy.”

With that, Calculus tugged Tintin to his feet and herded him out of the cabin like a fussy sheepdog. Haddock watched them go, pondering, not for the first time, that the strangest things truly did happen at sea.

*

There was a commotion headed towards him from below decks. Haddock stood still as a stone on the sweltering quarterdeck, ground that had been hallowed when _Le Tonerre_ was a Navy vessel. He had a fearsome reputation amongst landsmen and seamen alike, but the dregs and wastrels that undertook piracy knew him to be a fair master, light of hand and cunning enough to win a crew's loyalty (and votes) with more than just plunder. As such, the quarterdeck lacked the usual piratical litter of sunbathing drunks and layabouts; Sharpsteel's men were of a different kind.

Which is why several of them barked annoyance when the commotion erupted amidships, causing a wave of brief, intense chaos to sweep aft, ending in a tussle from which the ship's terrier sprang, yapping, to sit smugly at Haddock's feet.

So much for the quarry. Haddock stared imperiously down at the huntsman; Tintin gaped back at him for a moment then leapt to his feet, ripping off a hurried salute. “Captain,” he said, breathlessly.

Dog, the aptly-named ship's dog, wagged his stubby tail in response to the boy's voice and Haddock resisted the urge to smile. He'd known Tintin would be quick to find friends within the crew. Dog had obviously adopted him as a puppy-in-arms. “What is the meaning of this?” he asked, coolly.

Tintin, still panting, looked down at Dog for inspiration and, when none was forthcoming, visibly braced himself. “I was, um. The doctor didn't require my services so I was, er. Playing, sir. With Snowy, sir.”

“Snowy?” The captain turned his attention to the terrier; he might once have been white, before a year's worth of life hunting rats in the ship's dingiest corners, but now he was a colour best described as 'bilge'. He was an amiable beast, though they had learned to keep him firmly out of the rum ration, and Haddock had long suspected that the little dog was biding his time to attach himself to a master. “Well, it's less accurate than 'Dog',” he said, referring to Dog's – Snowy's – new name, “but it'll do. Don't share your rations with him, he's a ratter, not a pet.”

And that was that. Quartermaster Nestor, in his customary place at the helm, gave the captain a significant look as he span on his heel to pace the quarterdeck, doing his very best impression of 'the-lord-of-all-he-surveyed'. He knew what that look meant; he was being warned to harden his himself a little against the boy who was stammering uncertain apologies after him. Reputation, reputation, reputation, and never mind that the entire crew knew his heart bled red rather than black.

Action, that was what they needed. The men itched for it, for release of everything a ship pens up inside a man, they wanted blood and plunder and food with younger weevils in it. They wanted the deafening roar of cannon, the shrieking thrill of the chase, the heady joy of battle. Lucky for them, then, that Haddock had the scent of nice, fat merchantman and a stowaway who could confirm its proximity. Now all he had to do was find the bugger; Tintin had given the ship's destination as Barbados, the sugar capital of the Caribbean, where migrated plantation owners would pay good money for the British-manufactured furniture and clothes that Tintin's merchant carried. Haddock had expected there to be a third, less wholesome cargo, but Tintin's face had darkened at the mention of slavery and Haddock had not pressed the issue.

And then there was the matter of food. Nice fat merchantmen knew the tenuous nature of their crews' loyalties, held fast with only the promise of wages and decent rations. Even a ship so close to its destination would have better stores than Haddock's poor _Tonerre_. The captain wrinkled his nose with distaste at the thought of another spinach-biscuit breakfast; Calculus' amazing new discovery, it had turned out, was that the incorporation of vast amounts of spinach into one unfortunate sailor's diet had prevented the onset of scurvy. So now they had a hold full of biscuits turned green with mould _and_ spinach. The acquisition of meat, Haddock had decided, was rapidly becoming a priority.

He was drawn from his musings by the striking up of a song by the men repairing sails. It was dull, repetitive work, as was most of the routine labour aboard ship, and shanties would spring up periodically as the men sought some distraction from the aching heat and the monotony. What was unusual, however, was the presence of a clear, sweet tenor amidst the rough chorus; a glance confirmed Haddock's suspicions as to the source. Tintin had perched next to the boatswain, following the motion of his hands with interest, clearly set on the learning the trick of it, and he was singing along to 'Haul Away, Joe' with great gusto. The newly-named Snowy sat beside him, tail a-wag, perfectly content.

Haddock suppressed a grin; quick to make friends indeed. 

*

The knock at his door was welcome. Haddock hastily covered up his charts (no need for any of the crewmen besides Nestor and the sailing master to know their course) and uttered a gruff, “Come in.”

The door remained closed.

“Blue blistering barnacles, what part of of 'come in' do you not understand?” Haddock roared, getting up and striding to the entrance of his cabin with much fluster. He yanked the door open, poised to eviscerate whichever layabout thought it fun to bait their captain, and halted when he found himself looking into bright green eyes.

“Your lunch, captain,” Tintin said, pleasantly, and Snowy yapped a greeting from down by the lad's ankles.

Haddock immediately saw the boy's dilemma; both of his hands were occupied with the tray, he'd probably had to knock with his elbow. “Ten thousand- Boy, why didn't you announce yourself and your cargo?”

Tintin flushed. “Oh, I, er...I was not sure of the etiquette. I am sorry, sir.”

Etiquette on a pirate ship. The boy was cracked. Haddock sighed and turned back into his cabin, holding the door open. “Come on in, then. Put the tray on the table and stand by, you can take it straight back when I'm done.” As Tintin passed him, he examined his dinner and shuddered inwardly – one more day of watery stew and green biscuits and he was going to have a mutiny on his hands. 

His server for the day appeared not to notice his dismay. Having set the tray down, Tintin was studying the room with a great deal of interest and an equally great lack of discretion. Haddock moved to the table, keeping an eye on the boy as he began to eat; somehow, he'd managed to keep most of his clothes in neat order, even clean, and though his skin was beginning to darken with freckles, he had not acquired the blistered redness that newcomers to the tropics tended towards. Cuthbert was obviously keeping the lad busy in the crampt space laughably called the infirmary.

“Tell me,” Haddock said, as much to distract himself from the food as to satisfy his curiosity. “How do you find life aboard my _Thunderclap_?”

Tintin's eyes halted their wandering and he stood a littler straighter (Snowy, under no such pressure to pay any attention, was wandering about the cabin and investigating every corner with obvious pleasure; Haddock doubted he'd catch anything in here, but the little dog was having a damn good look). “It is...not quite what I'd expected,” Tintin replied, after a few seconds' thought.

Haddock grinned around his mouthful. “Y'must never believe landsmen's tales. They'd have you believing we're devils to a man, eh? Running our ships like Parisian whorehouses and letting the crew behave like madmen. You should know that whilst a man might captain such chaos, and many do, it is a bad captain who lets his villains run to villainy.”

To his private amusement, Tintin had blushed a little at the mention of 'Parisian whorehouses', but retained his composure. “If I may make so bold, sir, how _does_ captain a crew of pirates? Criminals are not typically renowned for their obedience to authority.”

An acute observation. Haddock forced himself to swallow the tasteless stew, grateful for the fact that it didn't taste of rot, and stroked his beard in thought. “The authority of the land is built upon land,” he said, sitting back to return Tintin's curious gaze. “Landlords, landowners, men and women descended from fighters brutal enough to steal territory from their enemies. The authority of the land is ancient and bloody, my lad, even the most wretched, evil pirate could never match its death toll. The authority of a captain rests entirely on the tolerance of his crew, no matter what those Naval bastards may say. Success breeds loyalty; Sharpsteel Haddock is very good at his work.”

Tintin's eyes flickered down, taking in the meagre state of the captain's meal, and Haddock read the unasked question as clear as a gunshot. “Trust,” he said, dragging his wooden spoon through the gruel. “They know I'll find then their riches soon enough; if I do not, it'll be another vote and you may find your new captain less forgiving than I.”

This had clearly not occurred to the youth. Tintin's eyes widened, his mouth pinching with worry; he shifted uneasily on his feet but said nothing. The captain chuckled, taking a dark delight in his reaction. “Easy, boy. If I don't find your merchant in the next three days, I won't be deserving of my position or my reputation. There, now, I am finished with these slops, you may return them to the cook with no compliments whatsoever.”

Tintin did as he was told, having to lean awkwardly around Haddock to gather up the tray and the captain felt a sudden capricious urge to snare his wrists, as a child might, solely to extract a reaction, but he restrained the impulse. His words had obviously had an impact his newest crewmember; Tintin's brow was furrowed with thought as he backed away from the table, his face taking on an absent cast not unlike the expression that Calculus tended to sport mid-experiment. There was a keen mind behind that boyish face, Haddock suspected, and it would wrestle with its preconceptions until it had defeated them.

“Off with you,” he said, without ire. “And take your beast, he'll find no rats in my bookcase.”

“Yes sir,” Tintin said, whistling Snowy to heel then, as he reached the door, he hesitated, turning back. “Captain, you...You like to read?”

Haddock raised an eyebrow. “You take me for an illiterate?”

“N-no, I-” Tintin hesitated, stammered, then excused himself in a hurry, disappearing out the door with alacrity. Haddock stared after him – whatever had caused _that_ reaction?

*

It was the velvet and silk that gave it away - the captain of the _Dallam Tower_ was a man who thought himself handsome. He was handsome, in fact; a tall, thin figure with a carefully-trimmed beard, long hair meticulously combed and clean beneath a hat larger even than Haddock's. All that marred his face was a haphazard spray of bruising across his right cheek and eye – it was a older wound, already fading. The man's hands were fine-boned and he obviously took great pride in them – gone were the calluses of seamanship, the weathered coarseness of seasalt and grime, all that remained was the gory evidence of their battle. His clothes, close cut and extravagant, were similarly pristine, but for the blood. Haddock felt shabby by contrast. 

He decided that he disliked the man. Certainly he had no wits, _Le Tonerre_ had never caught another ship so easily. The _Dallam Tower_ 's crew were a hale lot, hardy for the fight, but Haddock's ruffians were a screaming mass of demons long deprived of sin and probably still sore from the beating they had received from Tintin. The merchantman's former passenger had been ordered to stay below with the Doctor to tend the injured, with the unspoken caveat that his former shipmates would not rejoice to see him turned pirate.

Sharpsteel Haddock studied his defeated victim. He'd given his name as 'Mark Sherwen', ordinary enough that it sat ill on those elegant, well-groomed shoulders. A man with ideals beyond his birth-right, then, if one considered the wretchedness of his hold and the poorness of his steel. Haddock hefted the surrendered blade, aware of the scrutiny of both his and Sherwen's crew, and tutted at the awkward balance, casually resting its edge against Sherwen's neck.

“A mean blade, sir,” he said, twisting his wrist to nick the man's skin. “Why, I could give a closer shave with a marlinspike!”

Sherwen glared contempt, saying nothing. 

“Aye, a mean blade and a mean cargo; you disappoint me, Captain Sherwen. How shall I please my men with a plunder of cabinets and linens? The sun's too fierce in these parts for a costume ball.”

“The pleasure of your men is not my business!” Sherwen snapped, incensed.

Haddock smirked. “It will be, if you keep that tongue saucy enough. Where were you bound, merchant?” (He knew very well, of course, Tintin had already told him, but there was a ritual to these affairs that the pirate hesitated to neglect.)

Sherwen, his angry flush paled by Haddock's threat, subsided. “Barbados. We are chartered for a return load of sugar, rum and spices.”

“And thence to Africa for slaves, no doubt.”

The merchant started, alarmed, and Haddock's smirk twisted into a sneer. “A man doesn't stock leg irons for his own pleasure, you miserable cur. Tell me, slaver, why I should spare your disgusting life?”

Whatever answer Sherwen would have given remained a mystery, for the man's eyes wandered from Haddock's, his recalcitrance waning, and alighted on something that caused him to startle a second time before his face clenched with sudden hatred. Curious, Haddock turned to see what had elicited such a reaction; there, right on the deck of _Le Tonerre_ , a newly-familiar figure was bent over a prone form with a grubby white dog at its heels, stemming the blood that flowed from a man's stomach.

“You!” Sherwen snarled, starting upright despite the sword at his throat; Haddock flashed the blade before his eyes in warning and the merchant halted but his eyes remained fixed on Tintin, who looked up from his task with surprise. “You bastard! You whoreson traitor! Was my crew not enough for you? Now you must seek satisfaction with goddamned pirates? How many have you opened your legs to, you filthy little-”

With a swift movement Haddock rammed his fist, sword hilt and all, into the man's belly, silencing his tirade and dropping him to the deck. Sherwen curled reflexively up, too shocked to groan, and the pirate delivered a vicious kick to his chest, sprawling him onto his back, then quickly threw a leg over to straddle him, dropping the sword to draw his knife and yanking the man's head up by his hair. One neat slice was all it took, then Sherwen's screams were choked with blood as Haddock straightened, tossing the severed tongue aside in disgust. “Nestor,” he growled, ignoring the horrific, gulping wails behind him, “gut this tub and set it alight. Them as has mind to live may swim for salvation, I'll not have these dogs in my crew.”

He strode across the deck, swinging effortlessly back onto his schooner and making his way towards Tintin, who was still on his knees and pale and gaping with shock. He tugged the unresisting lad to his feet away from the injured man, admonishing an idler to tend the wounded as he went. He booted his cabin door open and shoved the boy inside, slamming the door shut behind them; Snowy, shut out, set up a ferocious barking behind him.

Tintin was gaping, his eyes wide and uncomprehending, and Haddock took his his collar in a brutally tight grip, dragging him up to glare into his eyes. “When I give an order I expect it to be obeyed,” he hissed, as Tintin's hands flew up to pry at his. “What devil drove you up on deck? Why did you go against my commands?”

The lad stammered, the revulsion of what he'd just witnessed clear in his face, and Haddock was abruptly aware of the bloodied hand with which he held him. “Answer me!” he roared, giving Tintin a rough shake.

“Th- The doctor, he told me- He wanted me to attend the injured- Wh- what Captain Sherwen said-”

“That vile excuse for a freshwater swab has no right to be called 'captain',” Haddock snarled, releasing Tintin with a violence that had the lad stumbling backwards. “He can burn with his ship.”

“But Captain, those things he said-”

Haddock silenced him with a bark of, “I don't care! Whatever you are, there are worse sinners in every government house! You _disobeyed an order_. I won't tolerate insubordination; my word is law on this ship, not that of a half-deaf poppinjay who calls himself a doctor!”

Some of Tintin's colour was returning, a shameful flush to brighten his cheeks, and he hung his head. “Captain, I...I'm sorry, I-”

“A pretty apology won't spare you,” Haddock said, dangerously. He moved to bear Tintin into the wall, surprising him enough to pin his wrists above his head before he could resist. Tintin began struggling immediately; his strength made him more than a match for Haddock, but with the older man pressed so close he had no leverage and he lacked the buccaneer's instinct to bite and snatch and gouge. Haddock leaned in, pressing a knee between firm thighs and watching Tintin's jaw go slack with horror as he realised the position he was in. “Are you a whore?”

Tintin's struggles halted at the question. He met the captain's gaze with calm defiance, though the muscles of his arms didn't relax for a moment, resisting Haddock's hold. “No, sir. I am not. He lied.”

Haddock held him a moment longer, judging the assertion, then stepped back, releasing Tintin's wrists. “I'll not tolerate indiscipline,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “Disobey me again and it'll be the lash for you. Now get back to your duties, and tell Cuthbert he's an insubordinate sassenach of an old goat, that should wake him up a bit.”

Tintin hesitated, moving away from the wall with caution. Haddock made no move towards him, allowing the lad to give him a wide berth. Tintin paused when he reached the door, the blood on his collar glistening in the low light. “Captain-”

“Out,” Haddock commanded, and Tintin was gone.

The pirate walked to his chair and sat, heavily. He could hear the thumping of boots and rattle of curses as his men emptied the _Dallam Tower_ 's hold, the voices of the boatswain and the quartermaster raised high over the general hubbub of the crew. Soon they would be off, weighed down with fresher food, cleaner water, and a hold full of cargo to dispose of, the men's bloodlust quenched for a moon or two – it was an excellent day.

And what was he to make of dark irises blown wide, of a heartbeat pounding swift against his chest, of a lad who could fend off an entire pirate band submitting so easily to one man's hold?

*

Barbados. A sailor's dream; rich plantations, desperate women and rum by the barrel.

Haddock watched with some amusement as his crew, neatened up and almost clean beneath the _Dallam Tower_ 's stolen colours, unloaded their pilfered cargo onto the quayside – the captain himself had swapped his extravagant feathered hat for a more humble affair, casting off brocade and silks in favour of a merchantman's woollens. The dockmaster, a tall, one-eyed man who introduced himself as 'Mr Skut', had examined his manifest closely, a light in his eyes revealing that Haddock's trickery hadn't fooled him a jot.

“You are an Englishman with a French ship?” Skut had asked, his voice sharp with Prussian accents, and Haddock had grinned.

“Scottish, sir. Scottish an' proud to wear an old ally's tongue on me boat.”

Skut's pale eyebrows had knitted in confusion. “A...Scotchman?”

“I prefer rum meself, but I ain't averse tae a wee dram, if ye've ane handy,” Haddock had leered, dropping into his broadest brogue and watching the dockmaster shake his head in despair.

“Who, then, are you sailing for? I've no deliveries from Scotland being collected today.”

Haddock had tapped the manifest in Skut's hand, affecting irritation. “Can't ye read, man? We sailed frae Lancaster, deliverin' to Dawkins and Whately. They ain't here yet?”

Skut had gestured to a trio of wagons lumbering towards where _Le Tonerre_ was docked. “Whately. Dawkins has no more business in Barbados.”

“Oh aye?”

“He got himself tangled up with pirates,” had come the reply, a slight emphasis on the final word, and Haddock, taking the obvious cue, had subsided.

No need for playacting now, though. Whately, a round-faced man with prosperity florid in his cheeks, had paid for the entire hold's worth with visible delight in his business rival's misfortune and was supervising the loading of his wagons. Haddock watched him; idle speculation tickled his mind with the idea of following the merchant home and collecting more than his due, but he dismissed the notion. They'd taken a handsome sum from this venture and Barbados boasted too strong a garrison for a raid at their present strength.

“Have we become honest men, Nestor?” he said, listening to the quartermaster's mutters as he calculated the distribution of the loot.

Nestor set aside his calculations with a snort. “Hawking stolen cargo? Only cautious ones, sir. Why waste powder in a raid on landsmen? Why risk our _Thunderclap_?”

Haddock scratched his beard, considering. “Still, some mischief wouldn't go amiss. Tell Rolly to round up some of the cleverer lads, I'm sure these fat plantation owners could stand a little milking.”

“Petty thievery, sir?”

“Why not? We're petty thieves. I'll wager there's more than one fool on this island who trusts his locks over the bank's, it would be irresponsible of us not to disabuse them of that notion.”

The quartermaster grinned, stuffing his papers into his belt. “Being good citizens, cap'n, aye aye, sir!”

As he bustled off, summoning the boatswain with a curt command, Haddock turned to find Doctor Calculus stood at his shoulder, closely examining the movements of his ever-present pendulum. “Ah, doctor! I daresay you're glad we've struck land.”

“On the contrary! It is most fortuitous that we docked when we did – why, my pendulum has been directing me towards land for several days.”

Haddock followed the line of the doctor's gaze to the bobbing sphere of metal. It looked as it ever did, oscillating back and forth in an unremarkable fashion. “Cuthbert, this dowsing...Is it not a nonsense, now?”

Calculus chuckled, sparing the captain an amused glance before returning to his intense study. “What a joker you are, Captain! It is nothing to do with housing, you know that I am fully at home aboard _Le Tonerre_. I must have found cures for dozens of tropical diseases, thanks to the proclivities of your men.”

“Cuthbert-”

“Ah, and how fortunate that we are in Barbados of all places! Do you know, an old friend of mine has a laboratory here, I have been longing to refresh my supplies; do you suppose we'll be here long?”

 _That depends entirely on whether or not Rolly's lads get caught_. “I expect so, my dear doctor. You'll be taking your assistant, of course?”

“No, no, don't trouble yourself,” the doctor said, warmly. “I'll take Tintin with me. It will do him good – the poor boy has had the worst fit of the blue devils ever since the battle, I suspect it is squeamishness. We did have to take Barney's leg off...Speaking of which, I must check on his bandages before he escapes to shore.”

Haddock sighed. “As you like, Cuthbert,” he said, watching Calculus make his meandering way across the deck; his remarks about the newest crew member rankled. In truth, he'd not seen hide nor hair of Tintin since he'd ejected the lad from his cabin. Snowy had made his usual appearances, trotting about the deck with his latest kill displayed proudly between blood-spattered jaws, but of his young master there had been no sign. It was troubling, given the lad's propensity for harassing the men to teach him seamanship. Perhaps he had been unduly harsh.

With a snort of disgust at his soft-heartedness, Haddock returned his attention to the unloading of the hold – if Tintin was so delicate, better that he leave with the doctor and find himself a more comfortable berth elsewhere.

*

“Now then, my bucks, you know how this works,” the captain said, addressing the motley assemblage before him; the crew waited in impatient expectation, eager to set upon the delights of Barbados. The only men not in attendance were Rolly's cabal of thieves and those who'd been volunteered to guard the ship; even Tintin was there, sitting beside the doctor with a ducked head and downcast eyes. Haddock tried to keep his gaze from wandering to the lad and continued speaking, “You bring back disease, you take a swim. You bring back King's men, you take a swim. You bring back a woman, you take a swim, and I take your lassie.”

The men guffawed their approval. Haddock allowed himself to smirk along with them, then waved his hand dismissively. “Off with you. You've plunder to spend and a morning's illness to look forwards to.”

With a low roar of acclamation, they did just that. The captain lingered a moment to watch, quietly amused by his brutal ruffians' insistence on stepping aside for the doctor and his laden-down assistant; they were fond of Calculus, fiercely protective of him to a man, and it was a brave soul that dared be disrespectful to the absent-minded little fellow.

Or, it seemed, to his helper. Tintin was ushered from the ship with similar care, refusing several offers to relieve his burden of empty cases from Calculus's infirmary, the men seeming to have been as easily won over by him as Snowy. “I wonder, my lad,” Haddock murmured to himself, “if the morning will see you back.”

Shaking his head at his own foolishness, he checked the sword and pistol at his belt, felt the weight of his coin purse and gave his final instructions to the recalcitrant guards, promising a bloody vengeance on any man who abandoned his post. With that, he made for the docks.

And if he happened to choose a red-haired girl to accompany his merrymaking, well, that was his business alone.

*

As it turned out, the red-haired prostitutes wandering the streets lacked a customer that evening. The captain of _Le Tonerre_ had other, rather more pressing matters to attend to. The night began auspiciously enough; Haddock had placed a few orders with the fitting yard and a local food merchant famed for his lack of scruples, casually appropriated the dockmaster's list of export shipments (stealing cargo was so much _easier_ on land) and fallen happily into his usual pub with the self-satisfied glow of several jobs well done. 

He was well enough known in these tropical waters for the mood to shift when he entered; several men took one look and scarpered, most likely runaways from past crews, and a great deal more called raucous greetings from the depths of whichever foul brew or whore's lap they were currently engaged with. Most of the greetings he returned with interest, scanning the crowd for potential drinking partners, and his eyes alighted on one particular face with a sudden flush of happiness. 

“Well, well, well, if it isn't me old mate Alcazar!” he said, stepping up to the infamous Spaniard's table with a jaunty swagger. Francisco Alcazar, known to all God-fearing men as 'The Black General', had once been one of Spain's most bloodthirsty conquistadors, but a fierce appetite for gold and equally fierce hatred for the yoke of governments had driven him to buccaneering. The last Haddock had heard, he commanded a small fleet consisting of his mighty galleon _San Theodoros_ and several smaller, faster vessels. The success looked well on him; though handsome, the Black General had a fearsome appearance, rakishly scarred and with a great bushy moustache under which a generous mouth smirked. He favoured his old military uniform, now a ragged veteran of countless battles that hung from a combat-hardened body, and gold festooned every available patch of skin. There were even gold teeth sparkling in his devilish smile, teeth that shone as he greeted Haddock with a roar of laughter.

“ _Amigo mio!_ Do my eyes deceive me? Sharpsteel Haddock, the only man stupid enough to refuse my command!”

Haddock grinned, taking the glass that was offered and raising it to his friend. “The only man clever enough to get away with refusing!”

Alcazar returned the toast, tossing back his drink in a single expansive movement and gesturing for Haddock to sit. “Join me, _compadre_! You have the look of a man in sore need of refreshment.”

“Would that were all I need,” Haddock grumbled, glaring one of Alcazar's ruffians out of the seat beside his captain and taking the man's place, leaning back to brace his boots on the table. 

With a bark of laughter, the Black General clapped him on the shoulder, pouring another generous measure into his glass and casually tossing the empty bottle aside (Haddock noted, with approval, the alacrity with which another bottle arrived; ah, the advantages of reputation!). “It was always your way to stay out too long,” Alcazar said, indicating their surroundings with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The sea may be our mistress, but what man has only one mistress? _Caramba_ , your balls must be as blue as Neptune's beard!”

“Belay that amorous talk, General, or I might just throw you over this table and have done.”

Alcazar slapped the table, grinning. “Buy the next bottle and you may find me ripe for it.”

Haddock took another swallow of rum, enjoying its silk; neat, it came as something of a shock after weeks of increasingly watery bumbo. “If I'd paid up every time you gave such an offer, I'd be poor as a pauper with balls _bluer_ than Neptune's blessed blistering beard!”

“And I'd finally have your _Thunderclap_ ; not a bad day for me, _amigo mio_.” 

It was a fine compliment, though jokingly given, and Haddock tipped his glass in salute of it. “May I be as rotten as a landsman's promise before you take her, my friend. Now tell me, what news have you of that verminous visigoth, Tapioca?”

*

The hour was late when Haddock departed his fellow captain's company. Alcazar had admonished him to stay, gesturing enticingly with a bottle, but Haddock knew better than to accept; more than one captain had been lured into insensibility by the Black General and woken to find himself a deckhand and his ship serving Alcazar's fleet. No, better to leave whilst he still had control over his legs and find a young body to spend his coin on.

Fired by the thought, he turned his meandering steps in the direction of the aptly-named Fiddler's Lane. Anticipation coiled, steel-sprung and restless in his stomach, and his step became jaunty as the infamous street neared; Barbados' thin veneer of colonial respectability vanished when the sun went down, a veritable embarrassment of sordid riches surging to life, and he was eager to sample them. Unfortunately for him, Lady Luck had a rather different plan for his nightly entertainment.

He had just rounded a corner, stepping easily over a burbling drunk who lay prone on the cobbles, when a body collided with him at speed, knocking him back with such force that they both went down in a bruised tangle. Spitting curses on the thrice-damned foolishness of bumbling blundering blaggards, Haddock surged upright, booting his assailant aside with a furious kick; the man rolled away, springing up to his feet in a combative crouch with lightning speed, lamplight casting his face into sharp relief. It was Tintin.

Haddock gaped. “You-”

“Captain!” Tintin exclaimed, then whipped his head around at the sound of an enraged shout behind him. “Quickly, Captain, we have to run!” he said, plucking desperately at Haddock's sleeve. “Snowy must have bitten one of the men who was chasing us!”

“Chasing-”

“Come _on_ ,” the lad urged, tugging again before he turned to run, and, spurred on by an impulse he couldn't possibly fathom, Haddock followed.

Tintin bounded ahead, running with no obvious destination in mind; his head turned this way and that as they passed alleyway after alleyway, dodging the soused patrons of various pubs that flashed past. A flurry of excited yaps announced Snowy arrival – the little dog powered past Haddock, his legs a blur, charging up alongside Tintin to the lad's cry of “Good boy, Snowy!” and diving suddenly into alcove between two leaning buildings; before Haddock could register what had happened, Tintin had ducked in after the terrier, grabbing for the pirate captain before he could lumber past and yanking him into the shadows.

The sounds of pursuit were loud now, growing louder, shouting, slurring voices and the massed slap of many feet, a raucous chorus of an enraged chase. Tintin, pressed close by the narrowness of the alcove, looked up into Haddock's face, his chest heaving as he panted, hot breath stirring the captain's whiskers; his eyes were bright with exhilaration, a fiercely joyful smile baring his teeth, and perhaps it was that, or perhaps it was the press of his solid-muscled body, or perhaps it was the memory of the same body held fast and compliant in his grip, but Haddock could not have held back in that moment for all the treasure in the Caribbean. He surged forwards, the movement slight in the confined space, and took that smiling mouth for his own.

Tintin's lips met his readily, hungrily, and strong hands tightened on Haddock's shoulders, tugging at him. All thoughts of their hunters faded from the captain's mind as he thrust his tongue into Tintin's mouth, shoving him back into the wall and pinning him, his hands catching in Tintin's clothes as he stroked restlessly over firm muscle. The lad squirmed in his hold, his tongue sliding swift-clever alongside Haddock's, tangling them together.

The tarnished gleam of anticipation was burning now, glowing white-hot as a newer, fiercer fire took its place; Haddock growled, pressing his left knee between thighs that now spread willingly for him, Tintin moaning a wordless reply into his mouth as he hooked his right ankle around the captain's calf in encouragement. Frantic heat made them clumsy, stupid, and Haddock could only rut senselessly into that compliant body, the unforgiving roughness of his clothes only serving to drive the flame.

Their lips broke apart with a stuttering gasp, Tintin's hips canting forwards as he panted; sweat was beginning to darken the roots of his hair, shining on sun-freckled skin, and Haddock buried his face in the smooth neck, latching onto the lad's collar to keep himself from groaning aloud. Tintin nuzzled at him, catlike, then his lips found Haddock's ear and he was murmuring, “Captain, Captain, oh _Captain_ ,” his voice strangled as they struggled and fumbled and thrust awkwardly against each other.

Neither could have lasted. Tintin came first, letting out a yelp as his hips stuttered, his body jerking helplessly with his orgasm, then the wave broke in Haddock's body, his own snarled curse swallowed by Tintin's shirt as he rode the last shuddering tremors, ecstasy shattering crystalline with each forceful thrust.

As he swam dazedly up from his stupour, Haddock realised that Tintin was shaking in his arms and drew back in sudden alarm to find green eyes clenched shut, Tintin's head tipped back against the wall as he...laughed. The lad was _laughing_ , unwound with sex, silly with it, and the familiar afterheat stirred inside Haddock, alight with some deeper, darker feeling. 

For lack of anything better, he eventually managed to growl out, “Why in blue blazes were those men after you?”

Tintin tilted his chin down to look at the captain, all dark eyes and flushed cheeks, his lips kiss-swollen in the gloom as he grinned with reckless humour. “I suspect,” he said, breathlessly, “that they didn't take kindly to my trouncing them at cards. There was some unpleasantness, you see, and I hoped to win back the Doctor's pendulum without having to resort to violence, but...”

Haddock sighed. “Then I shall revise my opinion of you. You are foolish to the point of audacity.”

“Says the man who has just ravished me on a public thoroughfare,” Tintin replied, airily, tugging with the ankle he had hooked about Haddock's knee. “I...I suppose you do not wish to...to tarry any further? You, er, appeared preoccupied when I-”

“When you damn well bowled me over,” Haddock interrupted, fixing him with a glare. “Oh no, my boy, you shan't escape so lightly. Sharpsteel Haddock has found himself a new preoccupation, and he'll not be turned away.”

Had he known the legends of _Le Tonerre_ 's captain, the tales of dogged, relentless pursuit and indefatigable tenacity in claiming his prizes, Tintin's answering smile might not have been so triumphant.

Then again, perhaps it might.


End file.
